


Spotty Sweater

by YellowMustard



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bottom Connor, Boys In Love, Connor is soft, Established Relationship, Evan has Anxiety, Evan has body issues, Fluff, Implied Body Dysmorphia, M/M, Not Underage, Porn with Feelings, Sex, Smut, Top Evan, all i ever write is soft connor is this any surprise, connor is healing, vague references to The Collie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23628304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowMustard/pseuds/YellowMustard
Summary: Evan looks at the backs of Connor's hands; the bumps of his knuckles like marbles under his skin. Black fingernails, trimmed short and freshly painted. His arms and his jaw and the thin, splintery bones of his throat like bird wings. Connor’s chest, Connor’s hips, Connor’s legs, Connor.And for some reason.For some stupid reason.Evan looks down at himself.He’s never really done that before.(OR: Connor is beautiful. Evan has a breakdown. Also sex.)
Relationships: Evan Hansen/Connor Murphy
Comments: 31
Kudos: 272





	Spotty Sweater

**Author's Note:**

> Whaaaaat I'm back again ALREADY? 
> 
> Here is Another Thing, because ya girl has been listening to way too much Cavetown lately~ I originally planned this as another extension of The Collie and had waaaay more references to it in there, but felt like it was too heavy-handed so I stripped them all right back so it can more or less be read as an establish relationship stand-alone (I think I left like, one thing in there). I rly hope you like it!
> 
> (also I have been majorly neglecting my tumblr lately so I'm very sorry if you have sent me an inbox or message and not heard back from me. It's not you I promise; lockdown has just really messed with my ability to be social and I've been off-and-on Not Great. Thank you for understanding, love u <3 )
> 
> TW: I think one minor reference to Connor having scars? Also Evan is VERY unforgiving of his own flaws - lots of body issues in this and some implied body dysmorphia. Also sex! I think that's everything. 
> 
> Be safe! xox
> 
> @theyellowestmustard

* * *

It all started with the spotty sweater.

Well, more accurately speaking, it all started the day Connor Murphy was born. Born with a genetic makeup that gave him those long legs and sharp cheekbones and that warm little puddle in one eye like a coffee stain. 

And the day Evan Hansen was born as Evan Hansen; dumpy, uninspiring Evan Hansen.

But the problem, the one that lingered in the back of Evan's mind day after day like a bad smell, it was  _ exacerbated  _ by the spotty sweater. 

So it makes sense to start there.

It had started on a Friday, and there had been a plan. 

After school, Evan had a therapy appointment. So Connor and Zoe would drive Evan to therapy, then head over to the little shopping strip across the street and try to find something for Connor to wear for graduation in three weeks time. Then when Evan was done they would come back, pick Evan up, drop Zoe at home, then head over to Evan's where Connor was staying for the weekend.

To study. Obviously. A study weekend. For finals.

Nothing else.

Why would Evan be thinking about doing anything else?

So the plan was in place. Evan went to therapy, and Doctor Sherman asked him the same dull, meaningless questions, and Evan gave him the same dull, meaningless answers.

He really needed to talk to his mom about switching therapists. Find one that did CBT like Connor's. One that actually _helped_ like Connor's, who was flexible, who gave _other_ _options_ if writing letter after letter after letter wasn't working. 

Not for the first time, Evan wondered if it would be weird if he and Connor were both going to the same therapist. 

Anyway.

Therapy was, as always, a grand spectacle of Going Through The Motions, and Evan felt a heavy weight lift as he burst through the doors and into the parking lot, squinting into the overcast sky.

And Zoe was there (good) and Connor was there (better) and the car was there because Connor was going to spend the weekend at Evan's (even  _ better _ better).

And so was the spotty sweater. Which was the absolute best thing of all.

It was a thin, breathable-looking knit that appeared to be handmade. Darkest gray, covered in these big, goofy black spots the size of quarters, stitched right into the thing, which must've been at least two sizes too big for Connor, judging by the way the sleeves hung down past his fingertips. And like, nothing ever hangs past Connor's fingertips. 

Connor has long fingers.

Evan knows this because of Reasons.

Connor had grinned widely at Evan the second he'd gotten through the door; a big, honest-to-god beaming grin like Evan had made Connor's whole damn life just by existing. He'd attempted a wave, but the sleeve of the sweater had drooped over his hand as he raised his arm, and he wriggled his fingers until they popped out, showing off his customary chipped black polish and the familiar array of rings. 

Evan trotted breathlessly in the direction of the spotty sweater.

"Hey," he'd managed, and he'd meant to say more, to tell Connor how cute he looked and how happy he was to see him, but Connor had met him halfway between the car and the building and immediately swept him into a bone-crushing hug, squeezing him hard enough to knock the wind out of him and almost lifting him off his feet. Evan had let out a squeak of surprise, and Connor had kissed his head, then pulled back and cradled his cheeks in his hands and kissed his mouth, and all the words had just gotten knocked clean out of Evan's head; a perfect strike. 

Zoe had honked the horn after a while, impatiently shouting something out the window that Evan didn't quite catch. Something that involved the words  _ for fuck's sake _ and  _ gonna blow chunks, I swear  _ and  _ get in the damn car. _

Which Evan supposed was fair. But only fair- _ ish _ , because how was he supposed to  _ not  _ kiss Connor to death in the parking lot when he looked like  _ that _ ? What kind of will power did Zoe expect him to have?

Evan and Connor got in the damn car.

Connor had the decency to look a little sheepish when Zoe rolled her eyes at him, and it only made Evan want to kiss him again. 

"Thanks for the show," Zoe muttered drily as they pulled out of the parking lot. "It was truly riveting."

Connor had scoffed at her, his cheeks a telltale pink. "I mean, I thought that was pretty G-rated. We could amp it up for you. If you found  _ that  _ riveting, I bet you would  _ love  _ to see--"

" _ No--"  _ Evan had interjected in a yell, and Zoe had started loudly singing along with the radio at the exact same time in an attempt to drown Connor out.

Connor had not finished his sentence, and reclined in his seat with a self-satisfied smirk.

Connor is such a dick. 

Very nice to look at, though. Which didn’t make it acceptable, exactly, but  _ was _ very conveniently distracting. It’s hard for Evan to remember that Connor can be kind of a dick when Connor looks just...the whole way that he does. 

So.

They’d dropped Zoe off, picked up a couple of pizzas on the way to Evan’s, set the pizzas on the counter, and promptly gotten  _ very  _ distracted when they’d realized Heidi had already left for work.

Pizza could wait.

Right now was all about Connor; Connor’s bare fucking thighs and his jeans bunched down around his ankles and his red, swollen mouth and that fucking  _ sweater _ .

Connor-weekends were truly the complete highlight of Evan’s entire fucking existence.

Evan hazily registers that it’s maybe a bit odd that Connor’s out of his pants but he’s still clothed from the waist up. But he’s not about to complain, because--

“This is cute,” Evan says ( _ gasps _ would be more accurate, because Connor’s lips have shifted over to Evan’s side, and Connor has pulled his underwear down just enough for him to start sucking a bruise into Evan’s hipbone). 

Evan reaches down and tugs feebly at said sweater, and the tight pressure at his hip stops as Connor smiles softly and goes, “Yeah?” into Evan’s skin.

“Yeah,” Evan chokes out, and his grip on the sweater tightens as he swallows back an embarrassingly loud moan. “Is it, um--is it, is it new? Y-you weren’t wearing it at school today--?”

For the second time, Connor drags his mouth away from Evan’s hip, and Evan immediately hates himself for saying anything, fighting the urge to push his hip back up towards Connor’s mouth. When he glances down the hickey is already purple, like an ink stain just under his skin. 

Connor is looking up at him, his face adorably flushed and inches away from Evan’s obvious boner, and he’s still holding onto the waistband of Evan’s underwear like he could drag them down at any moment, and Evan  _ wants  _ him to drag them down and keep fucking going and it’s almost too intense but it’s also the Exact Right Amount.

Connor raises an amused eyebrow at him, and Evan’s never been good at reading facial expressions but he’s pretty sure he’s got this one figured out.

_ Now?  _

_ You really wanna talk about this right now? _

The expression gets even more obvious; sharper and sardonic but also somehow  _ extremely _ affectionate, as Connor begins lightly kissing his way back up to Evan’s shoulder.

His fingers seek out Evan’s hips, and he presses firmly on the bruise.

Evan whines. It’s an ugly sort of sound; high and nasal and gluey, and he immediately tries to muffle it by throwing his forearm across his mouth.

“Yeah,” Connor murmurs warmly into Evan’s collarbone. “It’s new. Didn’t find anything quite right for graduation but Zoe found this at a thrift store and insisted that I needed to have it.”

Connor’s nose grazes Evan’s neck as he works his way up to Evan’s ear, and Evan holds the back of the sweater tight tight tight. A groan starts to work it’s way up Evan’s chest, taking shape in the back of Evan’s throat, and just as it starts pushing against the back of his teeth Connor kicks his jeans off the rest of the way and swings a leg over Evan’s hips, sitting completely on top of him, and the groan is practically punched from his gut.

Because Connor is straddling him, in just his underwear, with his long, thin legs folded in half on either side of Evan’s thighs, and yeah this has happened before but the difference is that Connor is  _ still wearing that adorable fucking sweater.  _

“I could leave it on,” Connor teases, planting his sweater-paws on Evan’s bare chest to ground himself as he shifts his hips in a circular motion that is  _ obviously  _ intentional. 

And like. Evan considers this. Evan considers this as best he can when Connor is doing  _ that _ .

It’s tempting, honestly. But Evan’s pretty sure Connor would overheat and then what if he like, passed out on top of Evan and snapped Evan’s dick in half or something. That can happen. Evan knows because Jared had told him about it in middle school and Evan had been positive he was being messed with so he’d looked it up and it turned out that Jared was actually telling the truth for once and Evan had spent the rest of the day with his legs crossed and a wince fixed on his face.

Also, and more pressingly, if Connor keeps the sweater on, Evan won’t get to see his chest and his stomach and his shoulders, and Evan really wants to see all of those things, so.

“No,” Evan blurts out abruptly. “Off.”

Connor lets out a soft, blushy laugh as he complies, eagerly stripping off the sweater and the shirt underneath in one fell swoop. 

Evan’s hands reach out and wrap around Connor’s waist immediately, his tiny fucking waist, and Connor lets out a slow sigh. His head drops forward, like Evan’s hands on him is too overwhelming to bear, and his long curls swing forward to hide his pretty face. 

And they’ve done this before. This is not a new development. 

But Evan angles his head back against the pillows and looks at Connor,  _ really  _ looks. Because sometimes he forgets to do that. To just... _ look _ at him.

Evan looks at the backs of his hands; the bumps of his knuckles like marbles under his skin. Black fingernails, trimmed short and freshly painted. His arms and his jaw and the thin, splintery bones of his throat like bird wings. The mop of hair; long and soft and the prettiest color. Connor’s chest, Connor’s hips, Connor’s legs, Connor.

And for some reason.

For some fucking reason. 

Evan looks down at himself.

He’s never really done that before.

The first thing Evan sees is his arms, then his hands where he's pawing at Connor's waist. 

His fingers resemble fat little sausages, nails bitten down to bloody stumps, and his arms have too much hair on them.

It kind of makes Evan's stomach turn a little.

Then there's his chest, and his belly, which...looks absolutely  _ nothing _ like Connor's chest and belly, that's for sure. Like. Not even in the same league, not even close. Looking at Evan's torso compared to  _ Connor's _ torso is like comparing a child's finger painting to the Sistine Fucking Chapel.

Then there's Evan's freckly white thighs and gross, weird legs and he can't see it right now but there's also, like, Evan's whole  _ face _ , like his whole dumb  _ head _ , and just…

Just…

"Two seconds," Evan croaks weakly, feeling increasingly like he's losing equilibrium. "Bathroom."

By the time Evan has wriggled out from underneath Connor and thrown the bathroom door shut behind him he's almost convinced that his own self-disgust has become a tangible being; a physical thing lurking inside of him, clawing its way viciously up his throat and digging its talons in harder with each passing moment.

Evan wonders if he's going to puke.

Fuck, what the  _ fuck. _

It's been  _ months  _ since Evan and Connor had started getting, like. Physical. Even  _ more _ months since the tree and the hospital waiting room and the ongoing saga of Zoe playing Match.com.

How the fuck had Evan never thought about this before?

It's worse now, facing a mirror under the harsh glare of an incandescent bulb.

How could Evan ever thought he was good enough for  _ Connor Murphy? _

Evan has acne scars. They create these deep pockets on his cheeks; polka-dot memories of how badly he used to be made fun of for his pimples. He still gets the odd spot every now and then, sore and red and bulbous, and sometimes he still even gets one or two on his back, which he knows is fucking gross but also it’s nowhere near as bad as it used to be.

Connor's skin is near perfect. Not counting his wrists and his thighs, and the single, white chickenpox scar near the small of his back, there's not a mark on him.

Evan is like one giant mark. A walking blemish. Imperfections stacked on top of imperfections.

And that’s just like. The  _ outside. _

Because on the inside Evan’s just as pock-marked and scabbed over, and it almost makes him shudder in revulsion as he stares at his own dead-eyed reflection. He thinks about the way his own spit chokes him up when he tries to speak, and the way he tells punchlines of jokes with such hesitation it’s like he’s asking a question, and the slithery sense of dread that nestles its way inside of him when a shop assistant asks if he needs help.

Evan thinks about all of these things, locked in the bathroom in his underwear, and sweat begins to gather on his top lip and at his temples and at the crooks of his elbows.

Evan... _ Evan is a spotty sweater. _

The pun ought to make him laugh, but instead he’s mortified to find tears beginning to gather, blurring his god-awful reflection away.

Connor’s waiting for him.

Connor shouldn’t bother.

Connor can do so  _ so  _ much better than Evan.

Connor should--

“Evan?”

Evan jolts, even though the voice behind the door is gentle and not very loud at all. He balls his hands into fists and rubs at his eyes in frustration.

He needs to get it together. He needs to fucking--

“Ev? What’s going on?”

Connor sounds worried. Fuck.

“Nothing, it’s…” Evan gasps, using absolutely all of his concentration to keep the waver out of his voice. “Just gimme a second.”

“You’re crying,” says Connor plaintively, and very very softly. “Why are you crying, Evan?”

“I’m...I’m  _ n-not--”  _ Evan tries, and fails.

His reflection looks worse than ever; his round wobbly chin and his bloodshot eyes and reddened face.

“Open the door, Ev,” murmurs Connor. “Please?”

“I...I’m  _ fine _ , seriously, I--” 

“Evan, if you don’t let me in I’ll pick the damn lock. You know I know how to do it.”

Evan unlocks the door.

He’s quick to turn and slink away so Connor can’t see his ugly fucking face as he comes in.

But then Connor can see his back and his butt and his thighs and that’s almost worse.

Evan sits on the edge of the bathtub and hangs his head. He wishes he had long hair to hide behind like Connor does.

Connor sits crossed-legged on the bathroom tiles in front of him, dipping his chin and trying to get Evan to look at him.

Evan won’t.  __

Connor takes in a quivery breath, with intention, like he’s about to say something.

Then lets it out.

“I, uh...Is it me? Did I...Did I do something, or?”

“Oh my god,  _ no _ \--” Evan says in a rush.

_ Yes _ , his brain taunts. 

_ You’re perfect. _

_ You’re too perfect. _

_ And as soon as you realize it, you are going to leave. _

“Then...then what’s going on? Like...what is all this?”

Evan’s not even really sure where to begin.

“I’m--I just...I’m.  _ Sorry _ , I just…”

“S'okay,” says Connor, and his slow and steady patience only makes Evan feel a million times worse because he doesn’t deserve it, he just  _ doesn’t _ , and then with hardly any warning Evan’s exploding into a verbal meltdown of nuclear proportions; each word more toxic and poison than the last, rushing out and contaminating the air all around him.

“It’s just... _ god _ it’s so fucking stupid that I’ve never really thought about it before but--but, but now I’ve started thinking about it I can’t  _ stop  _ because it’s so  _ obvious _ , right? Like it’s always been right in front of my face and--and I’ve always been caught up with--with  _ you _ because how could I  _ not _ be, and I’ve never taken the time to think about the fact that I’m--that I’m…”

“That you’re what?”

“That I’m  _ gross.” _

There’s a long, stretched out silence. Evan still won't look up.

"You're...what? _ You?" _

Connor has the decency to pretend to be baffled by this, of course. But Evan sees right through it.

Connor’s lying. He has to be.

Evan immediately just wants to drop the whole damn thing. He doesn't want Connor’s pity, Connor’s condolences. All he wants is to crawl into a dark damp hole in the earth, like a worm, wriggle deep down and never come out.

“You’re...you’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re fucking kidding.”

Evan rubs his red, rubbery face with his ugly sausagey fingers. 

“I’m...no. I’m  _ ugly _ . I’m. I’m a  _ spotty sweater.” _

Connor doesn’t cry at the pun like Evan did. He laughs, but it’s not quite a laugh of amusement.  He sounds, like... _ confused.  _ Like one of those laughs Evan still does sometimes; a space-filler when he’s uncomfortable or feels like he’s missing some joke and doesn’t know how to respond. 

“Because...because I’m spotty. I have scars. And I...sweat,” Evan elaborates, limply. “And that’s...that’s ugly. And gross.”

Connor is quiet for a while, too long, and when Evan finally musters up enough courage to look up Connor is staring at him in horrified disbelief. 

It looks remarkably authentic. 

He's looking at Evan like he really, truly has no idea what the fuck Evan is talking about. 

"You...no?" says Connor, as though he's answering a question Evan hasn't asked. "You are literally the furthest thing from gross I ever--"

"You don't have to--" Evan interrupts, because this all just feels a bit too much. "Just...forget I said anything, okay? I'm... I'm just being stupid, I'm--"

_ "No,"  _ says Connor, interrupting him right back with such vehemence that Evan's mouth quickly snaps shut. "No, we're not just gonna  _ forget _ it, how am I supposed to just  _ forget  _ that you...that you  _ actually think  _ you're…"

Connor trails off, shaking his head in incredulity, and the hair tucked behind his ear falls loose to curl around his jaw.

"I just…fuck, Evan I don't even know where to  _ start  _ with that. Because you're...fuck, you're the most beautiful fucking person I know? Like...what the  _ fuck?" _

Evan doesn’t know what to say, and settles for shrugging kind of helplessly. It’s a pathetic, downtrodden motion that he instantly feels like shit about.

“I mean firstly,” Connor presses on, shuffling forward and grabbing both of Evan’s hands. “Firstly, okay. You have scars. I’m not gonna sit here and spout bullshit and tell you they aren’t there. But like…”

Connor intertwines his fingers with Evan’s and squeezes gently. Purses his lips like he’s thinking of the best order to put all the words in his head.

God, Evan hopes Connor doesn’t like. Compare Evan’s scarring with his own, to try and make him feel better. Because that would not make Evan feel better, because somehow that just doesn’t feel like the same thing. It doesn’t feel the same at all.

But Connor doesn’t say that.

“But like...we’re  _ made  _ to get blisters and scrapes and cuts and pimples. And we’re made to heal. Scarring is what skin is meant to do. It’s like...I dunno, it’s like all the raised bits of an oil painting? That’s just what oil paints wanna do. They wanna be textured. It’s like...their natural state. And without that texture you wouldn’t have, like. Bob Ross’s mountain ranges. I dunno, maybe that’s dumb, but...”

The fact that Connor has used Bob Ross as an example almost makes Evan tear up all over again.

Evan  _ adores  _ Bob Ross. 

Evan adores that Connor  _ knows _ that Evan adores Bob Ross. That Connor puts on The Joy Of Painting on Evan's laptop and curls up in bed with him whenever Evan's having a bad day. 

“It’s not dumb,” Evan peeps, staring down at Connor’s lovely, slender hands all caught up in his own. “It’s...I think it’s nice.”

It  _ is  _ nice. Better than nice.

Evan’s never thought about it that way before. The idea that skin isn't supposed to be perfect; that skin actively tries to  _ not  _ be perfect. 

Something about that makes him feel steady. Human and alive.

He tightens his grip on Connor's hands.

“Also,” Connor continues, seemingly emboldened by this response, “This might be weird to say but I honestly think you have an unrealistic frame of reference on how much you actually sweat. Because literally every time you’ve said you’re like  _ super sweaty  _ or whatever, I genuinely haven’t noticed.”

Evan's eyebrows practically shoot into his hairline in disbelief.

That cannot be true. That can’t  _ possibly  _ be true. 

How can that  _ possibly  _ be true?

“How can that possibly be true?” Evan asks.

“You have anxiety,” says Connor plainly. “You’re overthinking it, dumbass.”

Oh.

Right.

That's...yeah. 

“And all of that aside,” Connor continues, drawing Evan’s attention back before he can go looping away again, “can we talk about just...the  _ everything else  _ of you? Like your freckles and your legs and your shoulders and your fucking  _ hands  _ oh my  _ god? _ ”

Which.

No.

What?

Evan  _ hates  _ all those parts.

“--And your hair and your lips and your eyes, holy fuck your  _ eyes,  _ you have the most incredible eyes out of anyone I’ve ever met--”

And... Evan's eyes are like. Gray. Just gray, with a bland little fringe of pale eyelashes. There’s nothing exciting or interesting or  _ incredible  _ about them, not like Connor’s delicate blue-brown patchwork that leaves Evan reeling every time he makes direct eye contact.

But Connor speaks with such conviction, with such intensity; in one big long unbroken sentence like he’s almost forgotten Evan is even there.

It’s hard not to believe him. Evan  _ wants  _ to believe him. A lot. 

“I...okay,” Evan breathes out, his face inflamed and his heart hammering. “Okay, you’ve--you’ve made your point, you can--”

“No wait, I’m not  _ done--”  _ Connor protests, and Evan finds a hint of giddy laughter unfurling in his chest.

“You are,” he asserts, smiling a little. “You’re done. What more could you possibly--?”

_ “Heaps _ more,” Connor insists, scooting even closer. “ _ Loads  _ more, I’ve barely even  _ started.  _ Like there’s also the fact that you’ve only ever seen yourself in a  _ mirror.  _ Or in  _ photos.” _

Evan laughs softly.

“You mean, like, I’ve only ever seen myself flipped, like a mirror image? Because I really don’t think that would make much difference to--”

“That’s  _ not  _ what I mean,” Connor argues, his brow furrowing together in frustration, though it doesn’t seem to be targeted at Evan. “I  _ mean _ you’ve never seen yourself trying to explain plant stuff to me.”

Evan stops.

Looks up at Connor.

He doesn’t understand.

"You, like...you get this  _ look _ . Plant-Face."

Evan finds his lips quirking into an involuntary smile. 

"Plant-Face?"

Connor leans back and examines Evan's expression with critical eyes.

"That was  _ almost _ it, a second ago," says Connor. "But not quite. I'd know Plant-Face anywhere, and that wasn't him. Plant-Face is more excited. Bigger around the eyes. Little more toothy. Plant-Face is like. My favorite. Plant-Face and I are bros."

Evan's openly laughing now, even though he still doesn't entirely believe what he's hearing. 

"Oh really? Just bros? That’s...I’m like, offended, honestly.”

"Yeah, man. But like. That’s only because I need to leave room for Concentration-Face.”

“Oh, there’s...there’s more than one, like...face?”

Connor scoffs at this, rolling his eyes like the mere  _ suggestion _ that he only loves one of Evan's expressions is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. 

Evan’s never loved him more.

“There’s almost too many to even  _ count _ . I mean...Concentration-Face is definitely in my top ten. Concen _ fac _ ion. That one’s really good.”

Evan snickers.

“Concenfacion?” he teases. Because he can’t help it. Because Connor is a total dork.

“Yeah,” says Connor, completely ignoring Evan’s little gibe in his enthusiasm to Describe Evan’s Face. He wriggles impossibly closer, walking forward on his knees, which has got to be every bit as uncomfortable as it looks. “When you're really focused on something,” Connor says, sotto voce and secretive. “When you’re  _ really _ concentrating? Your tongue sticks out. Just a little bit.”

Evan feels his face heat in embarrassment. He’s suddenly struck with the image of some dopey cartoon character - like a dog or something, bug-eyed with a big red tongue lolling out.

“Oh god,  _ no.” _

“Just the  _ teensiest  _ bit,” Connor emphasizes. “Most people probably wouldn’t even notice, but I’m close enough to get a good look. Like it’s peeking out at me. Fuckin’ cutest thing in the entire world and I will not be told otherwise.”

This only makes Evan’s cheeks feel hotter, and he has the sudden urge to bury his face in his hands to hide them. He feels giddy and delighted and painfully shy all at once, and he’s not quite sure whether he’s dying for Connor to stop talking or if he desperately wants him to continue.

But it doesn’t matter what Evan wants because Connor is _not_ stopping. Connor Will Not Be Stopped.

“And then there’s also Connor-Is-Being-An-Idiot-Face. Or, Connor-Has-Said-Something-Funny-Face. Oh, and like--When you think something's gross, you do this little nose wrinkle.”

“I do?”

“Yeah,” says Connor. “Yeah, it’s like...like…”

Connor pulls this face, scrunching up his nose and mouth and going a little flinty around the eyes. It shows off his dimples; the twin divots that pop out to frame Connor’s smile.

It’s  _ very  _ cute.

The expression drops away as quickly as it’s formed, and Evan’s only a little disappointed.

“I dunno, I don’t think I’m doing it right. S’not the point, anyway. Just--all this beautiful shit, and you don't ever get to see it. It's a fucking tragedy.”

A tragedy.

Connor considers it a  _ tragedy.  _ That Evan can’t see himself the way Connor does.

Connor thinks Evan is  _ beautiful.  _

Evan may as well have a lava lamp lodged in his chest. He feels warm and melty; feels a slow, molten rise-and-fall through his entire body, and he’s pretty sure his skin is scorching hot to the touch.

Does Evan believe it? That he’s as... _ aesthetically pleasing  _ as Connor says he is?

Not quite. Not really; years worth of self-disgust has built up like plaque, and it will take a lot more than one heartfelt conversation to scrub it all away. But Connor’s wide-eyed honestly, his determination and fervent insistence that Evan was wrong about this, that Evan had everything completely and totally  _ wrong… _

Connor believes it, even if Evan doesn’t. 

Connor believes it enough to ease Evan’s rattled brain into submission, to settle the queasy horror in his stomach to a gentle, not-altogether-unpleasant flutter. 

Evan doesn’t have to believe it. Maybe he will, one day. He hopes so. But right now, Connor believes it, and that is all that matters.

Connor is sitting very, very close to him now, his chest pressed flush against Evan’s knees, so close that they can’t even hold hands anymore because the angle’s awkward.

“But my  _ favorite  _ face,” says Connor, voice dropping low and quiet. “Like...better than all those other ones put together…”

And maybe Evan’s skin is not as scalding to the touch as he’d thought it was, because suddenly Connor is trailing his fingertips up Evan’s legs; starting at his knees and creeping slowly up towards his hips, thumbs dipping down to stroke gently at Evan’s inner thighs. Evan, awestruck and trembling, watches, and Connor watches him watching; keeps his eyes locked on Evan’s until Evan succumbs to a full-body shudder, eyes flickering closed; helpless.

“That face,” Connor breathes, behind Evan’s closed eyes. “That one  _ right there.” _

The change in mood happens so fast that it almost gives Evan whiplash, but suddenly he needs Connor's hands on him, or he needs Connor's mouth, or Connor's dick in him, or  _ his  _ dick in Connor…

Any of those would be just fine, frankly. Evan's not fussy.

They end up stumbling back to Evan's room, weak-kneed and giggly, fingers interlinked and squeezing tight. The voice in Evan's head persists, for a little while:  _ you are not enough. _

And then it stops.

Evan's never really been very good at focusing on more than one thing at a time, you see. 

And how the fuck is he supposed to be able to keep tabs on his body issues when Connor gasps like that? When Connor slides his hands into Evan’s hair and it makes his skin erupt in goosebumps? When Connor’s mouth brushes, delicate as tissue paper, down Evan’s sternum and ribs and stomach before settling between Evan’s legs?

How's he meant to remember to hate himself when he's feeling so completely adored?

It’s over quickly, in retrospect, but at the time it seems to just keep going and going like it’s never going to stop. Evan’s practically shaking before it’s even properly begun, and he’s so keenly aware of Connor’s mouth on him that he can hardly keep track of anything else. The air feels thick, and Evan’s pulse flutters weakly through the whole thing, and he finds himself pleading but he can’t find the words for what he wants. It ends up vague; an incomplete thought, whisper-soft;  _ “please, please.” _

Connor pleads right back. Only with more words, the words that had been trapped in Evan’s throat.

And they’re on the same page. Of course they are.

By the time the condom is on; by the time Connor’s flat on his back and Evan’s fingers are all slippery, Evan can barely remember what his own face looks like, let alone what he doesn’t like about it. 

By the time Evan is actually  _ inside  _ Connor, all he cares about is making Connor forget what  _ his  _ own face looks like, too. 

Connor pleads some more, and digs his nails into Evan’s shoulders, and his thighs tighten and quiver around Evan’s hips when Evan gets the angle  _ exactly  _ right. He makes this noise, kind of like an extended breath of  _ “oh”  _ that pitches upwards at the end, almost into a whimper. It’s somehow familiar and new all at once, and it is absolutely gorgeous.

It’s always a surprise when Connor comes first. Because, like. Evan always considers their whole dynamic to be that Evan is completely fucking weak for Connor and practically comes in his jeans when Connor looks at him for too long. But it barely takes any time at all until Connor is clinging to Evan’s shoulders with newfound desperation, and his breathing quickens and his mouth drops open and this lovely, shaky moan falls out of it and then that’s it, he’s there, entire body tensing and shuddering for what feels like fucking ages.

Evan’s right behind him. His vision goes white, and his entire fucking nervous system burns up and disintegrates, and he manages a hoarse murmur of Connor’s name before completely collapsing on top of him.

Clean up happens. Evan’s only half-there, feeling pleasantly numb and warm; sedated, almost. He’s not even sure which of them  _ handles  _ the clean up. But it happens, it must do, because when Evan’s suddenly blinking himself out of a sleepy stupor the condom is gone and both of them have clean fingers and stomachs and Connor is curled up against his side, running a gentle hand over Evan’s forearm.

“Sorry, fuck,” Evan mumbles. “Drifted off.”

“S’okay,” says Connor, voice all pebbly like his moans and sighs have worn it down into little pieces. “You should go back to sleep.”

“Mm,” says Evan. His eyelids don’t seem to be giving him any choice in the matter; they’re already sliding closed, the familiar sinking-away feeling already making itself known.

“That was lame, by the way,” Connor says suddenly, like he’s trying to squeeze the thought in before they both drift off and it gets lost. “Not like--not the sex. Obviously. That was like...the antithesis of lame.”

Evan smiles. “What, then?”

“The sweater pun. Fuckin’ stupid.”

Connor hand makes its way up to Evan’s warm cheek, which he pokes lightly with his index finger; a little footnote that he’s only teasing.

“Mkay,” Evan mumbles, turning his head to kiss the tip of Connor’s finger. “Mkay, but...worse than concenfacion though? No chance.”

“No, fuck  _ you _ , concenfacion is--”

“At least mine was  _ clever _ ,” Evan argues. 

“Doesn’t even make sense,” Connor mutters, sounding a little belligerent and just as exhausted as Evan feels. “You compared yourself to a thing you yourself  _ admitted  _ was cute. Dumb. You’re...cute and dumb. Fuckin’ himbo.”

Evan would probably burst out laughing if he weren’t right on the cusp of sleep.

“Shh,” he says instead. “Go sleep.”

“Mm,” Connor concedes. 

Then adds.

“You should try on the sweater tomorrow. Bet you’d be really fucking cute in it. Even cuter than usual.”

And Evan’s not entirely sure which face he makes in response to this. But he feels his cheeks tug, and his heart jump, and a single, happy breath push past his lips.

And he thinks maybe it’s a good one. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
